


An Elegy for Angelica Schuyler

by youarenotinWonderland



Category: Hamilton - Fandom, Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youarenotinWonderland/pseuds/youarenotinWonderland
Summary: I usually don't join the conversations unless forced into, but even that has been quite a long time ago. Maybe you should ask my sister for she knows him better than I do, those absurd questions irritate me. I don't know how to sing for America. I don't have a name under its glory. I prefer uptown quietness.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Angelica Schuyler, Angelica Schuyler & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler & Margaret "Peggy" Schuyler
Kudos: 6





	An Elegy for Angelica Schuyler

When people talk to me about things so remote and erstwhile, I tend to indulge myself in an indifferent detachment to the temporal presence. I usually don't join the conversations unless forced into, but even that has been quite a long time ago. Maybe you should ask my sister for she knows him better than I do, those absurd questions irritate me. I don't know how to sing for America. I don't have a name under its glory. I prefer uptown quietness. 

But I still can recall things. Pieces of America, fragmentary memories, shadows of war ghosts. Sometimes they pop up in my dreams, so vivid and clear but never last long. I remember the writings, and how they came from one man's hand, and eloquence, too. All the lyrics, lines, even melodies so endearing but scrappy, streaming out from his quill pen like a flowing river with unquestionable determination for final direction. Words, like thoughts of pride randomly thrown into the summer breeze, are restlessly flying to hunt the humid summer night of mid-July, as if looking for an absolute destination. There is no rest for revolution. And all the founding fathers know that but only Alexander persists it with unmeasurable courage. It's like holding one's breath and diving into the oceanic profoundness of a righteous enterprise. To build a nation of freedom out of the land of ruins; To make an earthly paradise concrete and tangible to touch; To mark great names out of the taste of historical vanity. But none of this do I care, that is for sure. 

This nation has come to its maturity, ripping off its fruitful gains to reward our young blood and their faithful commitments. What's your devotion and where's your portion taken, Angelica? People start to ask me questions like that. Honestly, I once looked for an answer, too. Eager and impatient as the hungry nation, ruthlessly demand public recognition. I was so silly and young back then, and so was Alex. Suddenly a strange rewind strikes me, enveloping me with tremendous fear and passion, in which I may have found what's mine—the party I met him, the sight we exchanged in the hot air, the grimace of unspoken affection, the thoughts of me pondered in his eyes, the moment I offered his hands to my sister's. That is my portion, I guess. An altruistic submission to duties, some may say, but I don't agree so. It indeed conceives my selfishness, which gives birth to a guilty sense of secret ownership over a man who shall never belong to me. I remember every curve of his handsome complexion, his alluring voice and gentle whispers, his virtuous qualities and admirable accomplishments. And yes, though I hate so but have to admit, his dramatic mistakes and life tragedies. I've kept him within my watch all my life, but I never mean to catch him back. There is no sharing portion for happiness. At least not for me. 

Rumors are everywhere, like ghosts. They will never disappear but outlive you and me, long after our vanishment, beyond the very far horizon line of blurring history. I don't know when the sunlight becomes as sharp as a killing knife to penetrate my skin, and always remind me what it feels like to be hurt. I've lost all senses for a long while and recover slowly. But when night awakes and arises like mountains of fear, it again occupies my body and paralyzes everything. I have never found such an intense desire to pause for a second to take a look at my whole life, to pull me out from the wheels of history, to sing a song for myself but not America. I want to feel it but not just read it, memorize it, recall it, what's in my eyes are illusions of consciousness. What I touch is an unreal hallucination. What I want is just a dream that never exists in reality. What does happiness look like? Or maybe I should ask, what is happiness, after all? I might have long lost track of it ever since that night. I believe I've made the right choice then and it has made everyone better off except for myself heading alone into the abyss of despair. I know what's coming but all my life I've failed to make compromises with it. Acceptance itself is a failure of life that will never happen to Angelica Schuyler. 

I know he will never be satisfied, and I will never be satisfied.


End file.
